


The Scarecrow

by OverwatchingYouSleep



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Erotic Horror, F/M, Fear, Hayseed! Junkrat, Porn With Plot, Sexual Content, Smut, Somnophilia, Stalking, Yandere, monster fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 03:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11477655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OverwatchingYouSleep/pseuds/OverwatchingYouSleep
Summary: This move out to the country was going to be good for you. Out in the middle of nowhere, no neighbors for miles, away from all the nosiness and lack of privacy you suffered in your day to day life. You just hate the empty house next door. Its busted-out windows, peeling paint, and worst is that creepy old scarecrow nailed to the post out back.





	The Scarecrow

**Author's Note:**

> Request piece, and definitely my longest single work yet. Enjoyed writing this one <3
> 
> For more of my stuff: @overwatching-you-sleep.tumblr.com

When you felt like you needed change in your life, you were surprised to find yourself immediately diving towards a change of scenery. A pretty massive one at that.

You didn't know what had initially inspired you to go house-hunting out in the country. You had lived in a cozy neighborhood with parents your whole life, even moving right down the street when you got a place of your own. There, the houses were all uniform, your neighbors were friendly and active, and the neighborhood bustled by day and was peaceful by night. A standard house in a normal neighborhood, you'd had the same childhood; same lifestyle as millions of people. But one day, it just started to feel wrong.

A far cry from the pleasures of suburbia, the home you wound up buying was tucked safely away in the sprawling farmlands of the mid-west, away from anyone and everything. The land held two houses, one lived-in and the other inherited after the old owner passed away. The house you would be living in was well-maintained and spacious, but miles from the nearest neighbor and even further so from any businesses.  So different from the perfectly squared yards of your childhood.

Your home was a rustic old type, two stories with a small storm cellar and single car garage. The outside was done up in a palette of various browns, the curtains blocking the windows from view of any wayward cars that might drive along the gravel road. You had a perfect view of the sunrise from your bedroom windows and the sunset from your back porch.

The inside was even better. Throughout the rooms, modern renovations had added ceiling fans and central air, but otherwise the original architecture of the house was left intact. In every corner you saw a mastery of hand-made work, and you couldn't help but wonder just how old the place was.

"1914," the real estate agent informed you, filling you in on the brief history of owners, the house, and the land. Overall, it was perfect except for its distance to everything and the extreme "project" house next door that both raised and dropped the overall price. It hadn't looked so bad from a distance. Curious, you asked her to get a look at the other house.

“…Of course," she gave, the pep and enthusiasm mysteriously missing that she had maintained for everything else. She shuffled her papers on her clipboard a couple times, obviously hesitating before taking you out the front door and over the grassy little mound that divided your potential home from its sibling.

When you first got a look at the other house, you weren't surprised to see why it stunted the property, or why she didn’t want to show you any more than you wanted to see it. From afar, it just looked a bit decrepit. Up close, you could truly see the issues. You debated fixing it and renting it off so that you could have some company, but decided quickly against it. For one, you were probably the only person in the world that wanted to live this far out in the middle of nowhere, he only reason you could afford this land in the first place. Secondly, it would take a lot more work than you thought.

Shutters hung from the frames, clattering against the siding in the wind. The screen door was devoid of any actual mesh that made the screen. At the right angle, you could stare right through the dark guts inside of the house and out the back door, a black frame to an otherwise sunny blue day. You didn't even want to go through the house and denied the owner's tour of it. You didn’t miss her relieved expression from the corner of your eye. The inside looked to be in no better shape than the outside, and you could only guess how safe that would be.

You circled around the back, taking account of the wide expanse of field that made up your "backyard." In the immediate vicinity, there was a barren cornfield, the rows of dry dirt still paved from the years of neglect. In the middle was a wooden post, and large scarecrow nailed in a crucified position, facing out into the fields.

Immediately, you felt a hate for the thing. It was unnaturally stiff, skin sewn out of potato sacks with a disturbing amount of detail put into the hands and the feet. A few birds were perched on the wood, pecking at its straw ponytail, but it didn’t move to retaliate. You rolled your eyes at your nerves. Why would you expect it to? You shook your head to rid yourself of the thought and reminded yourself to remove it later.

Besides the scarecrow, the yard was undecorated. It wasn't very appealing, but the house next to you was. That was enough to make taking on this hunk of project worth it.

Ultimately, you decided that it was worth the extra bit of price. you'd leave it there for now, and whenever you decided that you needed the extra space, you'd renovate it. You weren't looking for a project home, but it didn't have to be one. You tried to push the image of the creepy house out of your vision, focusing instead on the house you'd be living in. Your future home.

The sale was made that afternoon.

As you packed up and prepared to make your move, it was impossible to ignore the friends and family dropping by to inform you of how much they missed you, not-so-subtly asking if you were “okay” or “needed help” with anything. It was well-meaning, you were sure, but it only made you want to get out that much more quickly. You weren’t going to intentionally, but you dropped some extra cash to hire movers to help you. Anything to get out of that place faster.

You were certain your surroundings weren’t the only thing contributing to your depression. Living with your parents close by had been useful for anything you needed help with. Your job had been close enough to walk to, all your friends were houses away. Maybe it was suffocating sometimes, especially when you felt that even with your own house you lacked the privacy you sought, but it wasn't nearly as bad as all that. Even so, something about not being able to see another living soul over every horizon appealed to you.

So maybe it was true that you needed the space. You kept telling yourself that your friends and family walking into your house without warning didn't bother you, that you were okay sleeping with your neighbors throwing loud parties every other weekend, that the house was perfect for you. Apparently, it just wasn't meant to be. You tried not to let the relief get to your head. After all, this might just be a temporary solution, and who was to say you wouldn't get lonely, just as you felt trapped?

That was a possibility, you knew. You tried to be confident as you packed up your things and moved them carload by carload to your new home. It was a change that you needed. Whether it would turn out to stay that way was something for the future to decide. You were just going to go what felt right.

One week later, falling asleep for the first time knowing you were the only person within a 50-mile radius, that was what felt right to you. Comforting enough to lull you right to sleep.

\--

You were surprised at how quickly time passed when the days didn’t drag.

Your mood stayed elated, day after day of your unpacking, organizing, and cleaning did nothing to dampen it. You continued to wake up refreshed every morning, happy to see the sunlight creeping up your bed from your window. You didn’t usually believe in miracle cures, but this drastic change seemed to be just what you needed. You were in disbelief at your own progress.

Even your appearance in the mirror looked better than it did back home. Your eyes were a little more alert, your smile took up more of your face. Even your cheek dimples appeared more prominent when you smiled. You knew it wasn’t just how you looked; you felt more alive than you had in the past few years.

Your first snag was hit almost a week into your move. Nothing had come to bother you over the days, your home was quiet and peaceful. You knew that the only problems that would crop up would be the ones that you create yourself. Except, you didn’t _think_ you had misplaced your favorite shirt.

 You flipped through your stack of clean laundry, looking at your empty dryer in confusion. You knew you had unpacked it already, it certainly wasn’t lost to the move like you would have initially dismissed it to be. No doubt, it had been eaten by your laundry cycle. You blew your hair out of your face, upset for the first time since you’d moved in. No other way to look at it; that just sucked.

You shrugged it off and took your laundry upstairs, trying not to ruin your good mood. It didn’t have to be a big deal unless you wanted it to be, and you’d rather maintain your own happiness than anything. Even with that mindset, you still couldn’t shake your inner sadness at losing it. _‘It wasn’t your fault,’_ you reminded yourself, physically shaking your head to remove the negative thoughts, _‘could’ve happened any time.’_

Once everything was sorted away, you stuck the empty basket back in your closet and closed your door behind you, padding back down the stairs. Your kitchen was the most pitifully stocked of all your rooms, but you were holding off on running to the store until everything was unpacked. No need to waste that much gas and time on multiple trips.

So, you cracked open your fifth can of Chef Boyardee that week and poured it into a bowl, setting it in your microwave and tossing the can while the appliance whirred. Hardly a glamourous life, but you knew it was only temporary. Your grocery run would be a big one, no doubt.

While the microwave heated your food, you looked out the window at the house beside you. The kitchen was high enough on its foundation to give you a clear view of the other house from over the mound. It hardly served as a fence, and you didn’t see the point of separating the only two houses within dozens of miles.

Well, you sort of did. The scarecrow in the yard was giving you the creeps. Maybe it was just in conjunction with the abandoned house sitting right beside it, but there was an instinctual feeling in your gut to avoid it. Too many cartoons as a kid, you figured.

In truth, the only reason you hadn’t gone over to get rid of that scarecrow was that avoidance in your gut. You were physically repulsed by the thing, honestly. Every time you glanced at it through your kitchen window, you think about taking it down. Every time, you don’t get any further than your own backyard before making some excuse for yourself to go back in.

Childish.

You sigh and look down at the two plates lying in your sink, left for later. You didn’t want to do dishes right now. You slid from the kitchen to the living room, plopping down on the couch. Your cable hadn’t been set up yet—you didn’t even want to imagine trying to get cable this far out—so you had nothing to do but stare at the blank TV.

It didn’t satisfy you at all. You were falling back into your habits from home, of letting your depression take over and suck precious hours out of your day by doing nothing. You shook your shoulders and leaned forward, trying to motivate yourself into being productive. If you gave up now, it’d be too easy to keep doing it. Besides, was it worth getting discouraged over something as minor as losing a shirt?

Newfound energy in your limbs, you pushed yourself up and made your way upstairs, deciding to unpack the decorations for the guest bedroom across the hall from your own; something that took a creative edge to satisfy every part of your brain. You didn’t have a lot of decoration to begin with, but coming up with creative ways to arrange the furniture and place your various souvenirs dragged your mind away from your missing shirt and kept it occupied for hours.

You weren’t even conscious of the time passing until it was nearly too dark to see. The sun outside was little more than a sliver on the horizon; night time had settled in and you’d been too busy to realize. You billowed your shirt back and forth to let out the warm air from beneath it, then wiped your hand across your brow to flick away the sweat. The work certainly wasn’t easy with one person, but it was finished, and satisfactory to your standards.

You flicked on the light just to admire the room one more time before making your way down the stairs. You went to the kitchen window to look out, without turning on any lights. The night sky was beautiful this far out. So many more stars without the light pollution to cover them, the unfiltered moonlight turning the vast field behind your house into a bone-white graveyard of dry grass.

You stared for a second longer before deciding to step outside instead. The air was humid and warm, but the breeze kept it from behind unbearable. Out here, the entire horizon was dominated by the starlight, almost shining off the trees and ground.

But no bugs.

Maybe you wouldn’t have noticed it, had you not been stepping outside at dusk every evening since you moved in. Normally, the early night was filled with the sounds of bugs and birds, lizards always whipping between the grass at your feet and fireflies lighting up over the horizon. None of that was happening tonight. The sounds of nature had been put to rest by something, but what?

Whatever it was, you wanted no part of it. Quickly, you stepped back in the sliding door and locked it, taking care to go and lock your kitchen windows as well. When you did, you noticed the scarecrow in the yard opposite and laughed to yourself. Maybe it would scare off whatever animal had wandered into the area and spooked everything. Maybe it was worth keeping around.

At least, that was what you told yourself this time around.

\--

For the first time since you had moved in, you were having difficulty falling asleep. You turned over for the fifth time, staring out at the vast expanse of stars visible from your bedroom window, but it did nothing to ease you. Something about the empty house was getting to you.

That, and recent events. Not only was night no longer filled with ambient noise of any sort, random things had been appearing on your front and back porch. Flowers, stones, and most recently a fully-assembled rabbit skeleton, bones picked clean and laid in a neat row in your unused gardening patch in the backyard. You couldn’t excuse the offerings to strays, and to say it was a crow would be far-fetched, but the best explanation you had. Especially since crows were the only birds still lurking around.

The clock was ticking along faster than you could keep track, making you feel like you were quickly losing sleep to your own paranoia. Even so, you knew it was reasonable. Every creak and groan throughout the house was cause for your attention, keeping you alert even as your eyes grew tired, then burned with the pain of staying open.

"Man, screw this," you whispered to yourself, turning over and pushing your face deep into your feather pillow. You needed to get your ideas of ghosts and haunts out of your head. The house was creepy, that was it. Everything beyond that was a figment of your own imagination, designed to scare you. You were doing fine out here. The freedom was breathable.

You closed your eyes and kept them closed, trying to ignore every little sound that rattled through the house. You could even hear the drafts outside of your door. You tried to look at it as a comfort instead of a bad thing; if anyone ever actually did break in, you'd most certainly hear them in here. The thin walls and unsettled floors made sure of that.

Somewhere along your relaxing trail of thoughts, you actually managed to drift off. The world beyond your eyelids began to fall away, until you plunged deep into the abyss of your subconscious for some well-needed rest. You weren't a very heavy sleeper, but you also didn't tend to stay up so late. For that reason, you had all the responsiveness of a rock.

It took a while for your dreams to come, but when they did, they did so with surprising clarity. You felt more lucid now than you usually did when you dreamt, but nothing was happening. You were floating aimlessly in empty space, unable to decipher anything around you through what could only be described as impenetrable black. You felt like you were in motion, but couldn't figure out what way you were going. You were dizzy with the thought.

For a while you stayed like this, the time not passing in a blink like it tends to when you sleep. You were bored. you waved your hands in front of you, feeling no air resistance, but nothing materialized through the black. Nothing you imagined worked. When you were finally plucked out of the emptiness and into an actual dream, though you weren't sure how you'd done it, you were so grateful that it took you a moment to realize what the dream even was.

You were immediately more conscious of the man overtop of you than you were of yourself. His phantom weight over your body made all your muscles tense. You couldn’t seem him, had no hint to what he looked like. Just his disembodied breathing.

You were lying in a bed, face-down, with his figure hovering over you and speaking into your ear. The words were warbled in the way that all dream conversations are, but even in that respect the voice didn't sound very human. Something was wrong with it, a problem you weren't quite able to place. You were also bothered by the sound of his heavy breathing, hot puffs of air pressing in from all around you and near suffocating you. You were so surrounded by it that you felt like you were directly in his mouth.

He spoke to you again, his unintelligible words, and you felt hands shifting along your thighs, barren beneath your nightgown. Even for a wet dream, you felt so conscious of this, more so than ever before. It didn't feel like something distant that would disappear in 10 minutes after you woke up. The heat that radiated off this man felt impossibly real. What made this dream so special?

He pushed himself into you (when had he gotten your panties off? You couldn't remember.) with force that you barely responded too, seeming too tired even in your dreams to be moved. His hands found your wrists and pushed them to the floor, his body slamming into yours and pushing you down into your mattress. You cried out into your pillow, voice distant in your ears, and he began to piston his hips back and forth at an alarming speed. He was so hot, burning up between your thighs, and sweat was rolling down your back the more he pressed up against you.

Even so, your body was responding pleasantly. Your senses were muted through your unconscious haze, but they were there nonetheless. You pushed your body back against him, silently begging for more, and his left hand snapped off of your wrist and dug into your hair, pulling your head up until your back was perfectly arched. You hadn't been fucked in a long time, and never like this. Was this what you were craving?

"Hurthabluos." His dream gibberish was loud, resonating from every direction of the room as though he were everywhere at once. His breathing was the same, heavy and distorted, like he was breathing through a mask. You tried to turn your head and see who your mysterious dream visitor was (Not a wise idea, there was several disturbing subconscious discoveries you could have made about yourself doing that.) but his grip on your hair would not relent, and you were forced to keep your head facing forward.

His hips rocked in time with yours. Your body seemed to find his rhythm perfectly, pressing your ass back into his boney hips and letting him rut his cock inside of you. It felt good, almost as good as real sex, and you imagined that if you were being fucked like this in real life instead of a dream, you'd be unshakably happy for a month. Maybe all you did need was someone to share your bed with for a couple nights. At least, that was what your subconscious seemed to be telling you.

He let go of your hair, but you held yourself up, letting him grab onto your waist and pull you back onto his cock with enough force to leave you scream--

The dream changed. He was still there above you, but his thrusts were much more gentle. You were laying down flat on the bed now, he was hunched over your curled form and pushing himself inside of you. His breath was less pervasive, coming only from right above you. He was bigger in this version of the dream too, so much taller than you, and he was having a hard time fitting is cock inside of you. He managed, rocking his hips back and forth slow and steady. It almost seemed like he was trying not to bother you, how modest he was being.

You almost couldn't tell which you liked better. In this one, his gentleness made your heart swell a little in your chest, which was being groped and fondled by his expert hands. They felt a little rougher in this one, but still pleasurable. He made sure to fill you to your limit with every thrust, cooing little encouragements in your ear.  You almost think you can make some of them out in plain English. Something about sleep, and watching--

Again, your dream flickered back to it's rougher counterpart, your visitor's cock pounding deep inside of you and forcing you down onto the bed. You immediately missed the size of the other cock that had been filling you, so much fuller and more pleasurable than this one. You rocked your hips back, desperate to get as much out of this one as you could anyways, but it didn't feel quite right. You just weren't enjoying the feeling as much as before.

Your slackness was recognized by your partner, and he pinned you on the bed to compensate, brutally thrusting his cock deep inside of you to get a rise out of you. He barely succeeded, only earning a few whimpers, but it was something. You needed something to get you off.

"Fuck," you said, and you heard it in your own ears, making you pause. It was strange, just how conscious you were of this dream. You had tried to brush it off, thinking of it as something to be dealt with after you allowed this dream to get you off. Now, though, you were starting to get suspicious. And the thing you were becoming suspicious of was making you afraid.

You didn't even have time to try and wake yourself before he speared to the hilt, pinning you down on the bed with a guttural cry. He was fucking you wildly, sporadic and with loud grunts that echoed around your entire room. You bit the pillow, and he came inside of you with a sigh, an icy chill running through his entire body and turning him into an icicle. You yelped and clawed away, trying to avoid his cold skin, but he hugged himself close to you, releasing his equally chilly cum in you and freezing you from the inside out.

You jolted awake with a start, sitting up and looking around before you even had the chance to pry your eyes open all the way. You weren't even in your bedroom. It confused you at first, but you realized quickly what had been so strange: you had fallen asleep on the couch in the living room. Which was strange, you swore you went to bed that night. Maybe you were just too tired to remember correctly?

You looked down at your clothes, a pair of shorts and an old t-shirt, and felt just a bit relieved. Nothing out of place, you looked just like you had when you had fallen asleep. It really had been a dream. A slightly frightening wet dream, but still nothing more. You turned your head to the side.

The television was turned on, but nothing was playing on the screen. You hadn't had time to get cable yet, and you had nothing for the TV except an old gaming console, which you hadn't even hooked up. Confused, you yanked your remote off the coffee table and turned it off. The room got dark, the only light coming from your porch out front, but you could still see around you.

You took a deep whiff of breath, shaking the odd scent of wet straw and dirt out of your nose, and used the effort of your exhale to push yourself into a sitting position. With another tired wheeze of effort, you moved to stand.

That felt like a mistake instantly.

You collapsed back onto the couch, trying to breathe off the sudden ache between your legs. It wasn't too bad, it had just caught you more off guard than anything, but it ran through your crotch and down half of your inner thighs, the tender flesh feeling bruised beneath your prodding fingertips. Your brain felt awake instantly, and your eyes darted all around the room in sudden, seizing fear that gripped your heart.

It hadn't been a dream. Had it?

You stood up again, this time bracing for the pain with a clenched jaw, and hobbled over to the near window, looking out at your front porch. There were no other cars out front, and there was no way anybody could get out here without a vehicle of some sort, unless they got lost and wandered for a full 2 days.

To confirm it for yourself, you did a check around the entire house, searching the perimeter, your basement, and your attic, all with a kitchen knife wielded uncertainly in your hand. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. You still felt like you couldn't trust it. Another check around to confirm the lack of vehicles, and you were okay enough to retreat to your room. Just not without your light on.

The first thing you did was shed your pants, allowing light to shine on your aching thighs and slit. No bruises were visible to you, even from what you could see in your mirror, and your slit looked untouched from what you could see. You didn't feel the coldness inside of you from your dream, nor the stretch of your hole that you certainly would feel. You pumped your finger in and out of yourself a few times experimentally, wincing at the pain it brought you, but you were certain that nothing larger than that had been inside of you.

You sighed, feeling both relieved and unsatisfied with the results of your investigation. It had to have just been an intense masturbation session in your sleep. You believed it, with how much you were enjoying it, but you didn't feel like it had just been you. You felt like something else had been inside you, taking advantage of you while you slept. With nothing to confirm it though, you shelved the thought for the sake of your sanity.

After all, you wanted to get some more sleep tonight.

\--

The next day, you decided you needed some time outside.

It was obvious that staying holed up in your house was having some sort of effect on you. You thought that maybe the drastic nature of your change would help, but now the whiplash of loneliness was putting you far too much on edge.

Besides, it was about time for your shopping trip. You had a lot of things you still needed to buy, and now was a good time. Seeing other people would be good for you. You even stared through the tall grass as you backed your car out of the driveway, cautious for anything that might be lurking. It was only when you pulled out of the lengthy fields and into the woods section of your long drive that you finally stopped glancing in your rearview every two seconds.

The nearby town was even smaller than the real-estate agent had let on. There was a decent sized flea market, mainly manned by the residents of an Amish town nearby, but the modern amenities were slim to none. The shopping section of the town consisted of two fast food places, a gas station, a pawn shop, and a clothing store. Anything else you wanted to buy, you’d have to drive out another half hour.

The flea market turned out to be a great place for fresh groceries, something that you knew would inspire you to cook. While you were there, you even purchased some seeds from a vendor to plant in your backyard, something that would keep you going outside for some fresh air. You visited the pawn shop before you left, just to look for anything that might fit into your house that you needed. You wound up walking out with two paintings and a mini-stereo, feeling better about your life already. A little materialistic coping never hurt anyone.

The drive back was a little more joyous; you cared enough to play your own music instead of mindlessly listening to the radio. When you pulled back into the fields and down the long winding roads that led to your house, fear didn’t pool in your gut like it has been. It seemed some human interaction was all you needed to reset your mind.

Over the horizon, you saw a tight cluster of dark clouds rolling in, slowly taking over the bright blue of the sky. You’d had a few drizzles since you moved in, but not a storm yet. You rolled down your windows, noting the change in pressure that implied the coming shower. Nice to know already that there were no leaks in your old roof.

When you pulled in, you barely remembered to close the garage door behind you before you sped through the house. You were too concerned with taking the seeds out back, eager to get them planted. There was a small soil patch tucked next to the porch stairs, fertilized and ready for use, as described by the real estate agent. The vendor had told you to simply sprinkle the seeds out over the dirt, and to let the flowers handle themselves. The picture on the little packet seemed pretty as well. Perfect for your first forage into gardening, especially without internet to help.

You tore the pack in half and let the little seeds fall into the dirt, nudging them around with your hand to spread them out. The image of the rabbit bones from a few days ago crossed your mind, laying out evenly on this very same dirt, and you shook your head to rid yourself of the sight. Unpleasant thoughts that you didn’t want to have.

You pushed the seeds just beneath the surface of the dirt with your fingers, just to ensure they didn’t all get washed away in the coming rain. Negative thoughts were starting to cross your mind, not about the situation, but about yourself. Angry for being in such denial that something’s wrong. Choosing not to think about bad things because they make you upset instead of facing them.

Of course, you could just as easily make a case that all your fears had been for nothing so far. Paranoia had obviously been running you up the wall. Your nerves were nearly shot, and over nothing. A missing shirt and a late-night sleepwalking session? You didn’t need to be upsetting yourself any further than you already were.

You wanted to clear your mind of all of it. Forget any of this stuff had happened and go back to being peaceful and content in this house. You had been so happy here, and you wanted to maintain that happiness. You sighed and looked up at your new home, this place so far from civilization that was supposed to be your haven, and steeled your resolve. You weren’t going to lose the goodness of this home to cowardice.

Past the roof of your home, the clouds were rolling in even faster than you were anticipating, visibly traversing over the hilly terrain. Soon it would blanket everything, bogging down acres upon acres of grassland with water. You walked around the edge of your house to admire it for a moment, reminding yourself of the natural beauty that made up half your solitude.

You went in feeling successful with your day. Through your grocery run and self-reflection, you reminded yourself why you wanted this house in the first place. You looked around the kitchen with a newfound appreciation for it, glad that you were able to cook, sleep, bathe, do anything in complete peace.  No interruptions, no people. It was a blessing.

You made your way upstairs, walking into your room and taking a look around at everything. You finally had the “lived-in” look you were striving for, your bed unkempt and random objects lying scattered across various surfaces, giving the room the comfort and character you needed to call it your own. Nobody to snoop through your things, or question you about the pages you have pulled up on your computer. Nobody to question, or nitpick.

Privacy was a precious boon, one that you weren’t taking advantage of, and maybe that’s why you felt so dissatisfied with it. What’s the point of a good thing if you’re not using it anyways? You nod, satisfied with your own insight, and turn to your dresser, pulling open the bottom drawer and slowly compiling an outfit from the bottom up. It was flashy, not your usual style, but who could comment? Who would be there to tell you that you can’t?

Once you have the clothes laid out on your bed, you turned to your reflection in the mirror and stripped down. Besides the dirt on your hands, your body was immaculate. You took some time to pose in the mirror, brushing off the self-conscious thoughts you were having about yourself to enjoy the feeling of life without an outsider’s comment.

You decided, pulling open your drawers and removing a thick leather bag, that you’d do your make-up before anything else. Knowing you were doing this solely for your eyes only placed another layer of self-confidence in you. You had no more reason to be performative. The beauty of this house was that you’d be able to figure out who you really wanted to be.

So, you experimented. The untouched, flashier colors in your palette hit your face for the first time. Your eyeshadow was more pronounced, purple sliding into black as it moved along your eyelid. You tried to wing your eyeliner for the first time, evening your lines with a cotton swab and redoing them nearly a dozen times before nodding in begrudging satisfaction. You applied a thin coat of mascara to your lashes, and the look started to fall together. You were almost unrecognizable.

You were picking through your limited collection of lipstick, trying to decide which among your four shades would look best when the first peel of thunder came from over the horizon. The storm was still a good distance away, not even a drizzle on your roof, but it would be on you full-force within the hour. Popping the cap off your lipstick, you spread it evenly along your top lip and reminded yourself to check all the windows.

You’d start with the one in your hallway, since you were near certain you had left it open when you went shopping earlier in the day. You glanced at the right side of the mirror, where your open doorway was reflected in the glass. From here, you couldn’t see the window, but you could tell it was open from the breeze swinging your door ever so slightly back and forth on its hinges. You looked back at yourself, focused on what you were doing so you didn’t mess up.

Then, just a bit too curious, you glanced back up at your door. The breeze outside was preparing a storm, it was certainly strong enough to move your door from here, right? It was the only logical conclusion, after all, but…

You shook your head again, groaning at your own hypocrisy. You were riling yourself up again; it was all you had been doing. You looked back up at the doorway, nothing out of the ordinary, and released your breath in a frustrated huff. Nothing was out here but you. You had to keep reminding yourself. It was laughable, the way you kept glancing at that reflection thinking you would see something.

You looked at it one more time to prove your point, except that time you did see something.

You whipped around, dropping the open lipstick on the vanity. The doorway was empty, just as it’d been the last few times you looked. You swore you saw…something. A light, some sort of shadow against an orange glow in your hallway. Like someone lurked just outside your door. You rubbed your eyes and looked again, seeing nothing out of place.

That tore it. You weren’t about to be bullied into fear by your own flippant paranoia.

You charged out into the hallway after the ominous glow, intent on proving to yourself that your personal boogeyman was a figment of your imagination. As you (mostly) expected, nobody was there, but you weren’t satisfied. You turned and threw open the door across the hall, looking in the guest bedroom for anything unusual. Nothing.

You made your way down the steps, getting louder the further you got. Every door in your way was slammed open, your frenzied eyes scanning every corner for traces of life or movement. Empty room after empty room. Not a trace of anyone, no noises out of the ordinary. Your confidence got just a bit stronger with each empty room you found.

You opened the front door, looking left and right along the gravel road. The sky was darker now, the clouds an ugly dark grey that spanned the entire horizon. Still, nothing hinting to anyone else’s presence. Maybe you had overreacted?

You tore through the dining room, into the kitchen and looked out the sliding back door. Not a single blade of grass in your spacious backyard was moving suspiciously; nobody was running away among the weeds. You glanced over at the windows, where the twin house ratted in the rising breeze. The corn field was seeing a surge in the crow population, trawling over the post and field with curiosity, but no other birds.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Just like you’d been telling yourself.

You made your way back up the stairs, chastising yourself for tearing through your house like a crazy person in pursuit of a light. You were letting it get to you. You remembered reading something about how long it takes people to adjust to specific changes in their life, and reminded yourself that yours was a big one. You couldn’t let the sudden change of your surroundings get to your head like this, or you’d never be happy.

You walked back in your open doorway, taking in the sight of your room. Your new home. You had to remember what this place was supposed to be for you. You weren’t letting it heal you the way it could be, all because you were afraid of nothing. You had to steel up.

Back in front of the mirror, you made a face at the sight of your half-finished make-up. Your eyeshadow was bland, and your lipstick was smeared along your top lip. You reached for where you had left the lipstick, your hands coming across empty wood. You looked down, searching for where you had left it. Except, it wasn’t anywhere on the vanity. You looked on the floor around your feet, to no purchase. It was entirely gone.

You were not going to just let that slide.    

“There’s someone here,” you said out loud, pulling your hair away from your face and staring into your own eyes. “Oh my god, there’s someone in my house.”

The more the situation came together in the head, the more disgusted you felt. The dream from a week ago was crossing your mind in particular. You knew your unease had been justified; it wasn’t all your imagination. The missing clothes, the random offerings. You couldn’t imagine how or who could be doing this, but it had to be something. This wasn’t all just a coincidence.

You needed a shower. A hot one. Something to scrub off every dirty thought you were having about yourself, all the things that someone could have done to you while you were asleep. You pulled yourself out of your bed and into your connected bathroom, peeling off your clothes and turning the knobs in the shower to a scalding temperature.

While you waited for the water to heat up, you stared at your reflection. You looked tired. Stressed. Covered in half-finished make-up. You thought about going back home to your parents, but you didn’t want to come back with this story. You were too afraid of the massive deal it would be to them, especially for something that would likely end up fruitless. Whoever it was would probably be gone before the police get out here.

No, that wasn’t an option. You needed to figure out who this was and figure out some way to either scare them off or get enough evidence on them to go to the police with. It scared you, the thought of sleeping in this house again. You’d been locking the doors every night, so it was obvious that this intruder had no problem getting in and out as he pleased. How could you let your guard down knowing something like that?

You stepped into the shower, wincing at the heat but welcoming it on your skin. You scrubbed at your skin with your rag until you felt it becoming raw, your wet hair falling in your face, make-up running down your chin and tainting the water a deep violet. The longer you stood there, the more you got used to it, until it felt like a dull throbbing pain instead of the harsh burn it once was. When you finally shut the water off, the chill of the air outside the curtain froze you enough to make your guts seize.

While you wanted nothing more than to just pass out in your bed, you couldn’t possibly go to sleep without clothes on. You pulled an oversized shirt and a pair of lounge pants out of your drawers, throwing them on your body and crawling under the covers. You never thought you’d be able to sleep with the light on, but you found that tonight, you wouldn’t have slept without it.

For a long time, you laid there with your eyes closed. Your entire body was tense, every muscle ready to leap at a creak on the floor. When the storm finally started, thunder cracking and rattling your house, that tightened your nerves even further. You were tired and sleep was the last thing you wanted.

You were unsuccessfully trying to reason with yourself to fall asleep, your mind racing with ideas to convince yourself to relax so you could rest. Hours passed in this battle, and finally, your exhaustion loosened your alert nerves one by one, until your eyelids finally felt heavy. Time was the real winner here, but you still smiled in victory as you allowed your brain to shut down, sliding through a dull recollection of the day while it did.

You were almost asleep. You didn’t want to think about it anymore tonight, but it hit you out of nowhere. You sat up straight, every muscle alert once again, petrified at your discovery.

The scarecrow was missing.

You launched yourself out of your bed, pulling your slippers on your feet and walking across the hall to your guest bedroom. You’d been so panicked, you’d barely glanced over the empty post in the field when you were searching the house. How you could have overlooked it? You peered out the window, trying to see into the field now, but the post was just behind the house from this angle.

“Fuck!” you bolted back into the hallway, down the stairs and back to the kitchen, your only clear view of the field. For a minute, you couldn’t see anything through the heavy rain and darkness. You kept staring, waiting for a lightning bolt to strike, which didn’t take long at all.

He was there. On his post.

Facing your window.

“Oh fuck no,” you muttered, shaking your head. “Hell no.”

You weren’t about to let this creepy stalker intimidate you. Especially now that you realized where they were hiding: Your other house.

It was obvious. You hadn’t searched the place, a squatter could have easily made themselves at home somewhere in there. Maybe they had lived there longer than you, then it wasn’t surprising that they could get in and out with ease. The might know the house better than you did. It all made sense.

Now, how to get them out?

You went back to the window, looking out at the scarecrow, arms raised out to its sides. You admitted it to yourself outright; It was so fucking creepy. If it was going to be used for psyching you out, you saw no reason why it should stay in the yard.

You made sure to grab the biggest knife in your kitchen before you walked to your sliding doors. You thought ahead to kick your slippers off before walking out, not minding the mud between your toes. You walked out and crossed over from your side to the other, soaked before you even crossed the threshold of your yard. You hardly cared. You just wanted this to be over.

The closer you got, the more you realized that the scarecrow was a lot bigger than you thought it was. By the time you got up to it, you realized that it towered over you, the post a full ten feet tall, the scarecrow over six. That instinctual feeling tore at your gut once more, pushing you to leave it alone, but it went ignored.

There was no way you could lift it. You weren’t that strong, you were half the size of the whole thing. Still, none of that mattered to you. You wanted it out of your yard. You dropped your knife and wrapped your fingers around the flimsy wooden support, tugging hard to dislodge it.

The dirt was so wet and weak, it came out easily when you pulled.  It’s weight was a whole other story, enough to make you topple over, barely avoiding getting crushed by the entire thing. You pulled yourself up and wiped the worst of the mud off your nightclothes, taking hold of the post from the other end and dragging it back to your yard.

You realized, about halfway across, that you looked like a crazy person. You were lucky that there was nobody else around for miles, because you’d almost certainly get the cops called on you now, even if it was your own property. You just didn’t have the respect for the thing to leave it until morning. You were delirious. Desperate for relief from the fear that had been controlling you ever since you moved here.

Your shed door was unlocked, so you threw it open without care and tossed the scarecrow as far back as you could. After a few more kicks to get it all the way in, you closed the door tight and threw the deadbolt, promising yourself that you’d properly lock it later. You didn’t want your stalker to come and take it back before you threw it in a fire.

Of course, you’d save all that for after you dealt with this pervert.

You walked back over to the other yard, digging your knife out of the dirt and cleaning it off on your pants. Looking at it that hard for the first time, you realized what you were getting yourself into. You didn’t really intend to use that knife. What if there was someone in there that did? Maybe you should just call the police…

You shook your head, gripping the handle firmly in your wet hands and approaching the busted screen door. You had no evidence, not really. You couldn’t get police to drive an hour out without a solid case, especially when the nearest police department had 7 officers. You were starting to regret moving _this_ far out.

You pushed the door in, wincing at the loud squeak it made, punctuated by doubly loud thunder that shook the very frame of the house. It was dark. This was a bad idea. You needed daylight, back-up, and more than just a kitchen knife. Your delirium brought you this far. You weren’t going to let it get you killed.

You backed out of the doorway, onto the small wooden porch the house sported. You were so conflicted. You wanted your nightmare to be over and yet it seemed like there was nothing you could do, short of going and getting a motel until it was solved. Your wallet wouldn’t like it, not after your shopping trip, but you would pay what it took to get out of here.

You were backing down the stairs when a very loud, _very_ close thundercrack made your soaked skin nearly jump off your equally-soaked bones. You hadn’t seen lightning to warrant that thunder. Nor did thunder get followed with the sound of shattering glass.

You turned around in time to catch your shed door flying through your house’s window, glass falling on the counter and in the grass outside. Your eyes widened, and you felt your body physically shivering with fright as you turned your gaze to the shed in the back corner of your yard.

He was already staring back at you. You could barely see his silhouette through the storm, but his glowing eyes pierced through the darkness. Two yellow orbs floating in the distance, leaving trails as they moved back and forth. It even took your shocked-still body a second to realize that he was getting closer.

Your fight-or-flight instinct took over, and you threw yourself through the busted screen door and down the hallway of the decrepit house. Screw the stranger. Screw the law. At this point you only feared for your life.

You got all the way to the end of the hall before your muddy feet lost traction, sending you landing on your arm before you caught yourself. You scrambled to get back up, glancing over your shoulder in time to see the door grabbed and ripped off the hinges. You pushed yourself up the rest of the way and swiped the knife from off the floor, darting around the corner and up the stairs.

Adrenaline sped you up a great amount, but it was nothing compared to the speed of this thing. He was at the foot of the steps by the time you were at the top, digging his fingers into the rotting wallpaper and crawling up the wall alongside the stairs. You ran along the landing, lungs burning from the physical strain, but not at badly as your teeth hurt from chattering.

You ducked into a room, shutting the door behind you and locking it, then turning to see where you had fucked yourself. The room seemed like a furniture storage room, everything from bureaus and bedframes to coffee tables and ancient TVs. You slipped through the cracks of the maze of miscellaneous furniture, wondering if you might be able to hide among the junk. The room was difficult to navigate, maybe enough so to give you the edge you needed.

The door slammed open, suffering the same fate as the ones before it in this thing’s rampage. You froze where you were, trapped between a tall china cabinet and a grandfather clock. You weren’t visible from where he came in, but it wouldn’t take much searching to find you. Your eyes scanned the floor for a place to step that wouldn’t make noise, but your muscles were locked. You were too afraid to even breathe.

You heard his breathing, lethargic and disturbingly familiar, linger near the entrance. A tear puddled in the corner of your eye when you remembered where you recognized that sound. Your dream was replaying in your head now, his pervasive breaths and warbled gibberish, unrecognizable through your dream-state. Now, it was right beside you, the stunning clarity sending instinctual quivers through your stomach.

Well, at least you knew there wasn’t a stranger living in the house. They were living on the post outside, and you wondered if you’d really lost your marbles after two weeks living on your own. A scarecrow was haunting you. A scarecrow was stalking you.

You heard him take two steps, then stop just beside you, the china cabinet hiding you from his view. You closed your eyes, breath stagnant in your lungs, waiting for the next move. You could hear your own teeth rattling in your skull.

A stitched fist tore through the oak of the cabinet like sandalwood, sending the cabinet toppling over. It was stopped by the clock mid-way, but the dishes crashed through the weak glass with ease. You ducked forward just in time to prevent being crushed by a hundred pounds of china dinnerware. Without pause or a strategy to speak of, you moved further forward in the stacks of furniture.

“Quit it!” he yelled after you, crawling over the angled cabinet and watching your retreat. You ducked under a table, looping around a busted recliner and finally ducking underneath a heavy office desk, the tiny space beneath a perfect fit for you to hide. He rounded the corner not moments after you ducked away, and you clenched your eyes shut, held your knife to your chest, and prayed that he wouldn't find you.

You weren't sure whether or not it was worth hoping you could get out alive. You even considered that you might just be delaying the inevitable, but your internal instincts refused to let you give up. Everything in you, even the parts of you that normally submitted to the negative, rumbled with one simultaneous mantra.

_"Stay away from that thing."_

He hobbled right past you, his legs mere inches from your hunched frame, but he pauses just before you release your breath. It gets caught in your throat, everything around you so deafeningly silent that you could hear your own blood pulsing through your ears. You heard him step back, then another, and he was back in your frame of view, continuing with his backwards, deliberate steps. You closed your eyes. It was over.

You heard his footsteps just next to your head, then past it. This earned your curiosity, and you opened your eyes, seeing his bare, inhuman foot slide past you and further beyond the desk. Did he not have a beat on you? Your face was getting red, you needed breath so badly. You begged him to move, to turn, do something so you could finally afford to exhale.

"Hold still."

He dropped to his hands and knees, face right beside you. It's a sack mask, scratchy brown fabric with a straw ponytail sticking out of the back. The smell of wet straw invaded your nose for the second time, and the flashback made you recoil instantly. Unfortunately, you had nowhere to flinch back to. You raised your knife in self-defense, and even you could see how it trembled in your grip.

"Stay away," you begged, tears streaming down your face as you begged for your life. You looked like a lost puppy to him, soaked and trembling helplessly. "Stay the fuck away from me."

The knife gave him pause, but more to stare at it than any real sign of fear or backing off. You waved it threateningly, holding the blade up so he could see its sharpness. You tried to advance forward and push him back, but he didn't budge to your bluff.

"Cute." He grabbed you by the shirt, faster than you could react to. His hand was human shaped and moved like it was bone and muscle, but his skin was nothing more than sewn together sacks. His other hand found your wrist, and he pulled you out of your hiding spot with ease, pinning you to the ground on your stomach. The knife had fallen out of your hands, and you only wondered where it had went for a second before it was slammed into the floor next to your head, embedded 2 inches deep in the hardwood.

"You're a cute one." It sounded a bit different when it wasn't nonsense, but the nasally, distorted voice was the same from your dream. You wished you had something to wipe your eyes with. "Really felt safe coming out here on your own, did ya?"

After a few seconds of nothing happening, you realized he actually expected you to answer. What was he thinking you were going to say? "I thought I would be the only person out here," you go with, trying to keep your voice from showing too much fear. He, on the other hand, was still savoring the panic in your eyes when he stabbed the floor, under no illusions of your bravery. He knew how scared you were.

"You were right on that one," he said, and you heard heavy fabric rustling above you. Seconds later, a dark brown sack fell in front of your eyes, two glass eyeholes staring at you with no emotion. His mask.

"I ain't no person." You couldn't turn your head to see, and didn't think you wanted to. But he wasn't going to let you avoid it. He moved his legs, making room for you to be flipped onto his back, to take in the hellish visage of the monster before you.

"Holy shit," you breathed. You were going to die. You were stuck staring at his exposed teeth, of which there were too many, to focus on the predatorial look in his sunken, glowing eyes. His face was divided in half by heavy, uneven stitches, further adding to his terrifying features. He opened his mouth and his tongue flopped out, long and black, wriggling around his lips like a snake. It looked like it was rotting away in his mouth.

"You scared?" he questioned, amused in a sick way that told you that you most likely had torture to look forward to before he killed you. You debated your answer, though you knew what it was. Would it be more dangerous to admit your fear or to lie? You eventually settled for nodding your head. Not like you could hide your tears and skyrocketing heartbeat anyways. He smiled--at least, it looked like he did--and his hand found its way around the knife handle, sliding it out of the wood with a jerk.

"Course you are," he teased, gripping the knife firm and lining it up under your neck, tilting your chin up with the blade. Cool metal pressed into your neck, just over your esophagus. You could still feel splinters stuck on the blade's edge. "That don't last forever, trust me."

You weren't sure what his meaning was, but he showed it to you by the way he dragged the knife down to your torso, slicing through your wet, ruined tee-shirt.  Then, like confirmation, he uttered the very words your gut was fearing.

"I'm keeping you."


End file.
